Marianna looked at the child, strange by even her family’s standards.
Syphilis.
Marianna smiled. Perfect.
Syphilis Morrow. Leads to madness.
Jean Guy Beauvoir leaned back in his chair in the library and looked around. Not really taking in his surroundings, but feeling at ease. Normally he’d be making notes on his computer, checking messages, sending messages, surfing the Web. Googling.
But there was no computer. Just a pen and paper. He chewed the pen and stared ahead, using his brain to make connections.
He’d spent much of the afternoon going over writing samples, trying to find out who’d written those notes to Julia. Someone had reached out to her, and from what little they were gathering about the lonely woman, she’d be almost incapable of not reaching back.
Had it killed her? Had she been murdered by her needs?
Beauvoir had had a need of his own. For the first hour and a half he’d concentrated on one suspect. The man he knew had done it. Pierre Patenaude. Far from being difficult to find, samples of his writing were everywhere. Notes on menus, staff rotation lists, evaluation forms and even French tests he’d given the young staff, trying to teach them that the night wasn’t a strawberry and flaming mice wasn’t a menu option. It seemed the only thing the maître d’ hadn’t written were the notes to Julia Martin.
But after another hour of digging and comparing, of leaning over an old-fashioned magnifying glass taken from a display of butterflies, Beauvoir had his answer. He knew beyond doubt who’d written to Julia.
Bert Finney drew the curtains to block out the sun and watched as his wife undressed for her nap. Not a moment of any day went by when he wasn’t astonished by his good fortune. He was rich beyond the dreams of avarice.
He was patient, but then he’d learned that years ago. And it had paid off. He was even willing to pick up after her, since it got him what he wanted. He gathered the clothes from the floor where she dropped them, trying not to notice the little gasps of pain coming from this tiny woman. Who felt so much, but mostly felt she couldn’t show it. The only argument they’d ever had, and that only once, had been when he’d tried to persuade her to explain all this to the children. She’d refused.
And now Irene Finney stood naked in the center of the dim room, tears streaming down her cheeks. He knew they would end soon. They always did. But lately they’d been going on longer.